Peace in the Storm
12/01/2014 | Categories: Contemplation, Darkness, Emotions, Happiness, Life, Magical, Nature, quotes | Tags: Art, images, Magical, Nature, quote, Seasons | Leave a comment
Moonbeam
See other images stacked in the cupboard in Poetry Jars
05/08/2013 | Categories: Darkness, Dreams, Emotions, Life, Moon, Nature, Poetry, Political | Tags: Dreams, images, impermanence, love, Magical, Moon, mujo, Nature, Poems, poetry, Political | Leave a comment
New Short Stories Library at Supernova1987
The night has passed and the edge of the dawn creeps into sight.
There are many short stories here. More appear every time I dream and wake to find the jumbled mess my mind makes of everything. In order to find them easily you can choose one here. I hope you enjoy them.
Let One Hundred Thousand flowers bloom.
Let the stars fall upon the beaches.
Soft is the whisper of the cooling universe.
Soft are the words…
The Signal of the Second Spring.
Winter is coming to the garden.
It doesn’t mean that Spring will follow.
The Quiet Lives of Still Things.
If you watch for long enough,
you to will see the world differently.
04/06/2013 | Categories: Books, Darkness, Dreams, Fantasy, fiction, Life, Magical, Science Fiction, Shorts | Tags: Dreams, Fantasy, images, indie writing, Magical, sci-fi, science fiction, Short Stories, writers, writing | Leave a comment
Difference
In need of some feedback here. I have two versions of difference. The first used a very cartoon-like thought bubble. The more I looked at it over the course of the day and the photographs I used, the more I felt I hadn’t done justice to the brick. So I produced a more formal image. Feedback and let me know which one you prefer.
See other images stacked in the cupboard in Poetry Jars
04/05/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Dreams, Emotions, fiction, Life, Magical, Poetry, Political, Reality | Tags: Dreams, images, indie writing, Magical, Poems, poetry, Relationships, writers, writing | 1 Comment
Poetry Jars
Poetry Jars.
The poems buzz and rattle in the wires, so much I’ve had to encase them in images to quiet them and hold them still. Now they stand in jars stacked neatly in the gallery. Open them and take a sniff, dip your finger and taste them if you dare. But when you are done, make sure you have replaced the lid.
They will spill and stain if you leave them open.
The following Images were produced to accompany a short story called The Signal of the Second Spring. You can read the full story HERE or click on the images to view them all.
30/04/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Darkness, Dreams, Fantasy, Life, love, Magical, Nature, Poetry | Tags: Black Flag, Doubt, Dreams, Fantasy, images, indie writing, Magical, Nature, Poems, poetry, writers, writing | Leave a comment
Enter the Realm of the Dark Banner…
Welcome to Supernova1987.
Here are kept the monsters of the mind, secreted in small pockets of dark matter. Penned anxieties are released into the wires, sprayed across the ether, resonating amongst the spheres. Innocence has fled this place, beware the only beauty you will find here are the Daughters of Sadness and Madre Lament. Keep them here where I can see them; where you can watch them and know me better for my imagined sins.
Let One Hundred Thousand flowers bloom.
Let the stars fall upon the beaches.
Soft is the whisper of the cooling universe.
Soft are the words…
Transcience of the Amygdala.
Biographical and Historical.
Every morning as I wake, I find myself between two minds. The first still planted firmly in the feelings of the night, dark, fearful, confused and lost in fantasy. The second pulling into day; dragging with it all those fears that leave me hanging from the sea ledge, fingernails slipping in the dirt. Only after memories of this world win over do I find the courage to start again and learn to love the sun.
There are twin stories. Running in parallel through time unfolding. Guess which one is me.
Short Stories
Sometimes, when sleep is long and takes me past the gates of this world and beyond the veil of hidden shadows, stories whisper and boil inside me. Places unfamiliar to me swarm with faces, strange devices, creatures of the id. Dreams are processed, decoded, spread across the darkness of the screen, each word a nebula within a galaxy of sentences and paragraphs. Each story adds mass, increasing the velocity as we spin violently around the center of this heavy heart.
Soft is the whisper… Click here for Short Stories.
Poetry Jars.
The poems buzz and rattle in the wires, so much I’ve had to encase them in images to quiet them and hold them still. Now they stand in jars stacked neatly in the gallery. Open them and take a sniff, dip your finger and taste them if you dare. But when you are done, make sure you have replaced the lid.
They will spill and stain if you leave them open.
Longer Projects.
Over the years, there have been the seedlings of thought, nurtured and grown to become larger and bear fruit. Sometimes the fruit grows sour and when cooked it gives an intriguing taste that only leaves the wish to relish and explore again. Sometimes it sweetens and shows colour and promise beyond the bough it grows on. Others are shaken from branches to be turned in the soil once more, letting new seeds feel the nourishment again. Here you will find the trees of many words, each of which shines with the brilliance of stars. Let them fall upon the beaches of our minds.
Soft is the whisper… Click here for longer projects.
30/04/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Darkness, Death, Decay, Dreams, Emotions, Fantasy, Life, love, Magical, Nature, Nothing, Poetry, quotes, Reality, Science, Space, Uncategorized | Tags: anitya, Art, Black Flag, Death, Doubt, Dreams, entropy, Fantasy, images, impermanence, indie writing, Journeys, love, Magical, Nature, Poems, poetry, reality, Science, writers, writing | Leave a comment
The Mirror on Your Back.
The poems buzz and rattle in the wires, so much I’ve had to encase them in images to quiet them and hold them still. Now they stand in jars stacked neatly in the gallery. Open them and take a sniff, dip your finger and taste them if you dare. But when you are done, make sure you replace the lid. They will spill and stain if you leave them open.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The following Images were produced to accompany a short story called The Signal of the Second Spring. You can read the full story HERE or click on the images to view them all.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
06/04/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Darkness, Dreams, Emotions, Journeys, Life, love, Magical, Nature, Poetry, quotes, Uncategorized | Tags: Dreams, images, indie writing, love, Magical, Nature, Poems, poetry, quote, Relationships, writers, writing | Leave a comment
Bring Us Hither Your Sun and Your Summers
03/04/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Life, Magical, Poetry, quotes | Tags: Dreams, images, Magical, Poems, poetry, quote, Sea, Seasons, writers, writing | Leave a comment
The Curious Child and the Long Walk
I woke this morning and couldn’t get this out of my head. Something that happened years ago but has stayed with me as a shining memory. As the day has unfolded it has become like a patience puzzle, endlessly opening its lotus leaves to reveal more complexities and hidden things.
This story started as something simple; an idea to make a walk more interesting one day. It became dreamlike in the afternoon sun, distanced over time and memory until it returned fuzzy, browning at the edges and hinting only at peripheral feelings of the days we spent together in the sunshine.
Beginning | Page 1 | Page 2 |
|
|
|
Page 4 | Page 5 | Page 6 |
|
|
|
Page 7 | Page 8 | Page 9 |
|
|
|
Page 10 | Page 11 | Page 12 |
|
|
|
Page 13 | End | |
|
|
02/04/2013 | Categories: Books, Children's, Fantasy, Journeys, Life, Magical, Nature, Shorts | Tags: Children's, Fantasy, images, indie writing, Journeys, Magical, Nature, renewal, Seasons, Short Stories, writers, writing | Leave a comment
The Wise Mouse and the Sad King.
This malady went on for many months. The word spread around the kingdom that the King was sad. People were disheartened and uncertainty of the future grew. The Royal grain stores were infested with beetles causing a bigger blow. Rumours of enemies gathering on the border spread and people became wary of strangers. All was not well in the kingdom and it fell to the Grand Vizier to resolve the issue. He sent for Doctors and Alchemists, Philosophers and Oracles, Priests and Magicians from the far corners of the world. None of them could improve the mood of the King who had taken to sitting in his room by the fire, complaining of his aging joints. All he could think of was how he had failed his people.
The grand Vizier met with the King’s staff, his footmen, his waiter, his servants, his cooks and even the stable boy. The footmen told of how the King had loved to hear the singing of the men in the fields during harvest. The waiter named the king’s favourite book, the servants spoke of the flowers by the side of his bed and the cooks told of his favourite meal. All were tried and none of them helped with anything but to remind the King of how far he had fallen. He sank deeper into his lament. The stable boy not having much contact with the King had no ideas about what would improve his mood. He did however know of someone who might.
“In the village where I was born is a path that leads up the side of the mountain. At the top of the path is a cave where it is rumoured lives the wisest mouse in the world. For a small token he will answer even the most difficult of questions. My Grandmother told me how one winter when the crops had failed and the village was starving, the mouse showed us where we could find food that saved us.” The stable boy looked down at his feet as the servants whispered to each other and some giggled quietly. The Grand Vizier however banged his staff of duty against the tiles of the palace floor sending everyone to attention.
“Young man, Do you know how to find this mouse?”
“I could be there and return within the day my Lord.”
“Then take your token and entreat this mouse to tell us how the King can be happy again.”
The stable boy bowed. He prepared a horse and, stopping by the Royal kitchens, he set off to find the cave of the wise mouse. Riding as fast as he could, he arrived in the early afternoon and made his way into the cave. It was dark in the cave and the boy lit a torch to see the way. Cobwebs hung from the cave roof and here and there he heard to timeless dripping of water. After a while, he reached the back of the cave many small holes ran in and out of the back wall. In the centre of the dusty floor was a small flat rock where the Stable boy bent and placed his offering, a small piece of strong cheese. Backing away, he sat down to wait.
After half an hour, the strong smell of the cheese finally reached the nose of one of the many mice that lived in the caves. It made its way out into the cave from its tiny hole in the wall. Wary of the torch the stable boy held, it edged towards the rock where the cheese sat. The boy gave a start. The mouse backed up a little; aware that it was not alone. The boy sat perfectly still and watched the mouse as it explored this new object with its nose. The boy leaned in and whispered, “Wise mouse of the cave, many years ago you saved my village from famine. I have come to ask your advice again. Our King is taken by a sadness and we cannot make him happy again. How can the King be happy again? Please help us wise mouse.”
The mouse looked at the boy for a second. It sat motionless looking into his eyes. Then as quick as it could, it grabbed the cheese in its teeth and ran back across the cave to find its hole. As it climbed to enter the hole, it dislodged a small rock which fell down the wall of the cave and rolled to land at the boy’s feet. He picked it up and examined it, confused by what had just happened. There was nothing remarkable about the rock. It was smooth and hard like all of the other rocks in the cave. The stable boy thought that perhaps there was some message the mouse was trying to tell him but, as he was only a stable boy, it did not reveal itself to him. He decided to ask the elders of the village if they could explain the meaning of the rock.
None in the village had ever known that beyond the back of the caves were the cellars of the monastery in the valley beyond. Mice had lived inside the cellar for many years and over time extended their territory into the caves. When the first villagers had visited the caves many years ago, they had marvelled at what could sustain a mouse in such a damp and dark cave. The tradition of providing food for it started soon after. Stories started about the wisdom of the mouse, how its solitary life had been filled with contemplation and meditation. The elders would disappear into the caves and emerge with advice to help the village in times of hardship. The truth was that there were many mice in the caves quite happily feeding off the food cellars of the monks in the valley beyond and most of the time, the elders already knew what would help the village.
When the stable boy presented the rock to the them, they looked at the rock, they rolled the rock across the ground, they shook the rock, they smelled it and tasted it. Eventually after looking at each other and nodding, the Eldest of the elders rose and approached him. “We all agree that the wise mouse of the cave is sending a message to your King. It is saying that the rock is like the Kingdom strong and hard, solid and firm. Like this rock the King is strong and can carry this kingdom easily in his pocket.” The Elder placed the rock in the stable boy’s hand and sat down again. The stable boy thought about this. He wondered at the wisdom of the mouse to say so much with such a simple gesture. He vowed that he would return to the cave one more time to ask for more of the wisdom before returning to consult with the Grand Vizier. That way he would be sure that he could help to save his King from sadness.
He climbed the path to the cave, entered again, lighting his torch and proceeded to find the wall of holes. Again he left his offering of cheese on the rock and moved back to wait for his wisdom. Another mouse soon caught the smell of the cheese. It had been gnawing its way through a sack of rice when it caught a hint of something delicious. Having tired of eating the monks’ rice, it attempted to remove itself from the sack, but became ensnared in a section of hessian. Frantically it squeaked and pulled, trying to remove its hind leg from the small square of sack cloth it had acquired. The cloth came free of the sack but stayed with the mouse as it made its way through the honey comb of holes towards the smell of the strong cheese.
This time the Stable boy did not jump when the mouse appeared. He sat quietly and waited for the mouse to move towards him. As it approached, He whispered, “Great and wise mouse. Thank you for your wisdom, it will help greatly to improve my master’s health and bring him out of his malaise. I ask one more time, in the hope of serving my King to the best of my abilities, how else can I help to make my King happy.”
The mouse stopped at the sound of the boy’s voice. It turned to gnaw at the sack cloth caught on its hind leg and managed to remove it. Quickly, it leaped at the cheese, grabbed it and scampered back to the holes in the wall. The boy reached down and gathered the sack cloth. It was rough and uneven, frayed at the edges and had a smell of dampness. Again he took it to the elders of the village who once more examined it in great detail. Finally, the second eldest of the Elders stood up and approached him. “We all agree that the wise mouse of the cave is sending a second message to your King. It is showing him how his Kingdom is woven together as strongly as this piece of sack cloth. Each strand of the Kingdom is woven with the others. Even the King is woven into his Kingdom and as he unravels, so does everything else. The King must see that when he is happy, his people are happy.”
He thanked the Elders for their translation. He wrapped the sack cloth around the rock and placed it into his pocket. Again the wisdom of the mouse astounded him. It was so profound and succinct, beyond the likes of which he the simple stable boy could reach. Glancing at the low sun dipping between the mountains at the entrance to the valley he now stood in, he resolved one last time to visit the mouse and ask for its final wisdom before setting off on the long journey back to the palace. Quickly he climbed the path to the cave and lighting the torch, he went inside. Again he offered more of the strong smelling cheese upon the small rock and waited for the mouse to appear.
While he waited, he did not notice that the cave had been visited since he had left by other mice. Here and there were tiny paw prints in the dust of the cave floor. Several other mice had also been attracted to the smell of the cheese he had brought before and realising they were too late had returned, all except one who sat in the corner of the cave now gnawing on a piece of string it had brought from the cellars of the monks. It was very excited when it saw the boy return and place more of the incredibly good smelling cheese on the rock where it had smelt the other food. Forgetting the piece of string in its teeth, it ran forwards towards the cheese. Suddenly aware of the boy sitting quite close still, it squeaked, dropped the string, grabbed the cheese and ran away.
The boy was astounded. He took this as a sign that the patience of the wise mouse had reached its limits and he vowed that, as he took the last message of string, he would not return again to speak with it. He bowed and shouted his thanks into the darkness of the cave before leaving to consult the elders. On the other side of the walls, a lone monk, inspecting the wine barrels in the cellar, could have sworn he heard a ghostly voice thanking him for his wisdom. He returned to his chores that day loading the barrels to go to the palace and feeling a sense of accomplishment and happiness. It spread throughout the monastery that day.
Meanwhile the boy, taking the string to the elders, waited for their interpretation. They examined the string; it wasn’t very long and was chewed at one end. Finally, after much discussion, the third eldest of the elders stood and approached the stable boy as the sun began to set. “This string represents the time we have. It doesn’t matter how long it is, just that we have it. We should not look to measure our lives but to accept that they have a length and enjoy them for being there. Our lives are as long as a piece of string.” The boy thanked the elders again for their translation, expressing what a service they had done for the kingdom. Tying the string around the sack cloth which held the rock, he placed it in his pocket, climbed onto his horse and rode back towards the Palace of the King.
He rode through the evening and arrived back at the palace late after darkness had fallen. The Grand Vizier greeted him and gave him food as the boy related to him everything he had experienced that day. When he was rested he was ushered quickly to the Kings chambers. He was very tired and a little nervous but he knew that he had to present his findings for the good of the Kingdom. The King was in his great chair by the fire when the Vizier announced the arrival of the boy. He was drinking a wine that had arrived from a monastery at the edge of the kingdom that morning. It had a wonderful taste and went particularly well with the strong cheese from the Royal kitchens. It had made the King sleepy in the evening. Now he dozed by the fireside and was amused when the Vizier explained what the boy had done.
The stable boy entered the Kings chambers, he was tired and afraid. How could he a stable boy possibly help a King? He dropped to his knees in front of the King and, looking nervously at the Grand Vizier, announced, “Your Majesty, I have consulted with the great wise mouse that lives in the caves by my Village to find a solution to your malady. It has given me three things to pass to you each with a wisdom for you to hear.” The boy presented the parcel containing the rock to the King and explained the meaning of each object. The King listened carefully to his words; indeed this was a truly wise mouse to understand the thoughts of a King. If it was the wine or the words, no one ever knew to be sure but all will agree that the thing that changed the mood of the King that day was the arrival in the room of a small visitor.
As the Vizier, the stable boy and the King discussed the parcel and the wisdom of mice, a mouse which had stowed away in a crate of wine on a cart from a monastery had found its way up to the Kings quarters. It was warm in the room and the mouse was happy. It could smell a very strong cheese, something it had smelled earlier that day. Climbing up the leg of a table it could not believe its luck when it came across a huge plate full of the delicious smelling cheese. While the men talked, the mouse ate the cheese until the King happened to reach across to take another piece from the plate. The mouse saw the king’s hand and panicked; it squeaked a shrill warning to itself and jumped off the table. As it hurried away it sent a small piece of cheese flying through the air to land in the Kings shocked and open mouth.
The Vizier and the stable boy jumped up immediately and tried to find the mouse while the King now chewing on a piece of unexpected cheese sat in his chair with a curious expression on his face. In the moments before the mouse had left, he had seen it eating the cheese. He thought about the mouse in the cave, content to live only on what others brought for it to eat. And yet this mouse had travelled many miles to see the King himself and offer him a taste of its own happiness. The King could only smile at this. How could a mouse be happy and a King be sad. He thought about its other gifts; the strength of his Kingdom, the connection with his people, the importance of today and all the other days together. He saw the foolishness of his ways. He began to chuckle. The Vizier and the stable boy both stopped what they were doing.
“The King is laughing!” went the cry in the palace. The King feeling very relaxed and ready for bed went to sleep that night with a smile on his face. The stable boy was given a guest chamber in the palace and he too slept with a smile on his face. The Vizier carried himself as a only a Vizier does, but on occasion was noticed to close his eyes and smile before he too retired to sleep. The news filled the Kingdom. It spread around like fire in a dry gale until, by morning, every household in the Kingdom knew that the King was laughing. And when the King awoke that morning; when he flung back the curtains to greet the day with a smile in his heart, he found his whole Kingdom standing and smiling back at him.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
25/03/2013 | Categories: Animals, Children's, Contemplation, Fantasy, Journeys, Magical, Nature, Political, Shorts, Uncategorized | Tags: Animals, Children's, indie writing, Magical, Nature, old age, Political, Short Stories, writers, writing | Leave a comment
New Image Gallery at Supernova1987
Its Become evident that the site needs upgrading in terms of navigation, so while I think hard about how its going to look, please find links to all the poem images I have produced. Each link contains a link back to this page to help you navigate easier.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The following Images were produced to accompany a short story called The Signal of the Second Spring. You can read the full story HERE or click on the images to view them all.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
22/03/2013 | Categories: Books, Contemplation, Poetry, quotes, Uncategorized | Tags: Art, Design, Dreams, images, impermanence, indie writing, Magical, Nature, photography, Poems, poetry, quote, writers, writing | Leave a comment
Firebird
12/03/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Magical, Nature, Poetry | Tags: Animals, Death, Firebird, Magical, Nature, Poems, poetry, renewal, writers, writing | Leave a comment
The Signal of the Second Spring.
At the end of the story you will find the Signal Panels that were developed as the inspiration for the story.
The Signal of the Second Spring.
Anitya sat on the bridge, watching carp play with the seeds she dropped with her tiny hands. At four years old, she had the grace of a dancer seen all too long ago, perhaps imagined. The seeds left her hands in graceful loops that traced patterns across the air between bridge and water. She sat, as always, with her hair draped across her left shoulder. When she saw Mother enter the garden, she quickly adjusted it, placing it neatly above her head. She rose and smiled at Mother then giggled slightly as something fell and tickled her nose.
There were signs that autumn was coming. Maple leaves had begun to drift down and float upon the water. It sent a shiver down Mothers’ spine to watch and feel the cooling air. To think of winter was a terrible thought but a certainty they knew must come at one time; a winter without end; a winter with no spring. Somewhere out on the slopes of the mountain, a flock of birds were startled by something moving on the lower slopes. Mother guessed it was another bear. They were daring to come nearer now the food was becoming scarcer. She didn’t understand this. Surely there were nuts and autumn fruits. Colours were changing on the mountains, golden and warm. The garden reflected it back paying the landscape its respect and compliments.
She shuddered in the cool air. The signal was late again, each time reducing, each time causing Mother to feel anxiety she had promised to ignore. Each cycle became longer and the questions needed to be invoked. Anitya didn’t mind it though. The questions for her were anticipation and excitement. The process of renewal in the garden was a tremendous thing to watch. She didn’t understand the long hard winter and had not experienced it yet; cold beyond cold beyond cold; nothing and darkness. Father worked patiently to remotely adjust the relays but there wasn’t enough power to fix them all at once. As each fell off more rapidly he spent more time away from the garden.
Anitya rose and ran towards Mother, running her small fingers along the bamboo that shaded the path. Mother dragged herself from the worry and sat down in front of the sand garden. The girl had excitement in her eyes and would want to speak. She smiled and gestured to the seat beside her where Anitya bounced over and knelt down. She had her own questions.
“Mother did you see the birds? Did you see them? There must have been at least fifty flying out of the trees. What should we think caused them to fly that way?” She bounced on her knees to mark and exaggerate the speech, making Mother smile and hold her still. Those eyes of wonder were always a safe refuge against the troubles of the world.
“It was probably another big bear chasing a squirrel, but you must not wonder about such things. You know we must never leave the garden. To leave would be to never return. This place is made for us. A thing the birds and the bears do not have.” Anitya looked dissapointed. She was always peeking out beyond the stone garden, waiting for something to happen on the mountain while Mother constantly steered her back to her contemplations. They sat in silence for a long time. Watching more leaves fall from the maples. Anitya wriggled next to her, unable to contain her anticipation of what would happen next. Everything was changing.
A cool wind dragged its fingers through the Wisteria, spraying flowers onto the sand garden. Mother pulled her cardigan to cover them both as they sat. The light was beginning to fade and Father suddenly arrived in the garden. He brought a flame from the stove and lit the lanterns. Without speaking, he came and sat beside them. He was tired but something in his eyes had changed; had lightened. He looked into Anityas eyes and kissed her forehead brushing her hair back down across her left shoulder. She giggled looking guiltily at Mother who remained waiting for Father to speak. He knows something, she thought. I just know he does. He wouldn’t have lit the lanterns otherwise.
Finally he turned to face Mother, “There is another cluster approaching, enough for many years more and then I cannot say. It means more time but we will have to wait and watch the first snows before it can give enough to fix all of the relays.” He was running his fingers through Anityas hair and she bounced off the seat to dart playfully away from his reach.
Mother closed her eyes and smiled inside. All the worry of the last few days began to fade. She rose and walked back inside announcing loudly, “Then we shall need to keep warm.” As she walked away she heard him begin the questions of remembrance once more. He always did that, starting before she was ready for her part. Perhaps his intention was to teach her words to Anitya. She hurried inside and gathered several thick blankets and a hat for Anitya. By the time she returned he had finished the introduction and was moving to the first questions.
“What is a King worth?”
Anitya bubbled and glowed with happiness. She knew this one well and always enjoyed telling it. Standing importantly to mimic the weight of the story she would tell she raised her chin and imitated her Father’s serious expression. She began the answer.
“Even a King must die,
and come to realise that although his banner flies,
all his worth is bound
in how his body nourishes the ground.
A king is worth the fruit of trees.”
The garden grew lighter for a moment and then faded quickly to dusk. More leaves were falling and the maple leaves were now all a deep red and falling fast. A fox barked not far from the garden and Anitya jumped up and down. Father paid no heed. He turned to Mother to ask the second question.
She made her face a stern one and shouted out, “How powerful is an army?” This time Father answered. Standing tall in front of them, he spoke loudly and with force sending an echo out into the valley.
“Even armies fall.
Leaving nothing but metal shards and bones and clothes,
for sure a short memorial to those,
that come to pass
but trampled underfoot to feed the grass.”
Darkness fell quicker than any of them expected but the stone lanterns did not go out in the wind. The trees were bare now and birds rustled around at the foot of the bamboos to find a warm place. Father sat down and Anitya stood to ask the next question. She paused for a moment until Mother drew the figure of a roof with fingers out of sight of Father’s eyes.
Anitya barked at them, “How great is a city?” Mother stood and answered now pulling her blanket tighter around her neck.
“Even cities crumble.
For as much as they show mastery of nature,
concrete is attacked by tiny creatures.
Buildings shrink to rocks and holes,
That once again small insects hold.”
The wind calmed and the air was still. In the light of the lanterns, Anitya could see her breath for the first time. She was puzzled and pulled her blanket tight moving back to Father for warmth. Father saw her worry but moved on to the next question. He stood, surprising her and shouted the question loudly sending birds flying from the garden.
“How long does a book last?” Anitya did not have time to sit down. She dropped her blanket, standing a little shocked and barked the answer without thinking.
“Even books decay.
Pages filled with knowledge turned to dust and blown away.
On high winds they play,
Feeding grass on mountains steep,
pages grown for goats to eat.”
Mother gathered the blanket Anitya had dropped. Father smiled and took his daughter’s hand. She looked as if she might cry for a moment, not understanding how this game was affecting the world. Never had the garden looked so cold and uninviting and now white flakes of snow were beginning to fall, settling on the frozen surface of the stream. They went inside where the fire was already lit and warming the house. Father stood in the centre of the room and gazed out at the snow. He smiled, nervously, as Mother came to join him. “It will get worse before it gets better,” he whispered in her ear. She smiled at him and whispered back, “Its so good to see the snow again. I have missed this even though it makes me shake with fear.”
Father’s smile faded and indicated that it was her turn to speak. Mother stood again to attention snapping Anitya out of her trance as she watched the snow.
“How does an idea endure?” This time Father answered, not shouting as loud as he had in the open.
“Even ideas fade.
Cared for and nurtured, purity is diluted and washed.
Rolling out to oceans of humanity,
Tainted and polluted with every twist of the sea.
Challenged and dissolving clearly.”
A blizzard started to whistle around the rafters, making the house creak a little. Anitya moved closer to the fire, she had never seen anything this powerful before. Snow billowed around the windows and now covered the red carpet of maple leaves. She had forgotten her place and a sharp clearing of the throat from Father brought her back to stand in the centre. Mother could see that she was shaking now and yearned to tell her that everything would be alright. She knew the rules of the questions of remembrance, how important it was for the small girl to remember them. Her eyes were watering, but she stood still and shouted the question.
“What value is the earth?” Mother did not pause but rushed straight in with her answer, desperate to hold her child.
“Even the earth dries.
Turned to stone and desert where once farmers tried.
Changed by hunger, drought and heat.
Fields wither forests retreat.
Mountains leveled in defeat.”
Over the roof the wind howled suddenly causing a loud thump. A stone from the chimney stack dropped and fell to the fire sending sparks into the room and Anitya ran squealing behind the hall posts to hide. Father retrieved the stone and cleaned the ashes from the hearth. Mother ran to her and held her, lifting her back to the centre of the room. Both Mother and Father knew the last three questions had to be answered by Anitya.
When he thought that she was calm enough, Father asked, “How eternal is the air?” Even though she was shaken Anitya stood tall and seemed to recover. As if in recognition, the wind outside began to calm.
“Even the air thins.
Burned and poisoned as the cosmos rains in.
All will die save hardy small things.
Blown away on stellar wind,
to melting ice on planets twinned.”
The sky outside was becoming brighter and the snow had turned to rain, melting the ice as it filled the small stream in the garden. Mother watched as the warmth began to return and the first birds were singing again. The landscape outside was no longer a tundra of drifting snow and ice. She turned to smile at Father, who was nodding and smiling back. Anitya looked confused. She looked from one to the other but they did not share there private conversation.
Mother asked, standing tall “Is not the Sun eternal?” Anitya smiled. She remembered this better than the others because it had never made sense to her. Didn’t the sun always rise eventually? She went out in the mornings and it was always there.
“Even the sun will burst.
Wash out its fire across the worlds it held so dearly.
Every atom smashed and glowing clearly,
mingling with other ice and dust,
one day to find another star it must.”
Leaves were emerging from the Maples now; large buds unfolding. Mother had seen the stream return to its normal level. In the warm morning sunshine, the carp broke the surface chasing the first of the year’s insects. She opened the doors to let in the fresh air as Father put out the last of the embers in the fire. When he was finished, he turned and faced Anitya, their daughter whom they had created outside of the rules they had been set. She was Anitya, the impermanent one. One day she would be grown and ready to take care of the world they lived in, but for now she was the final piece in the snapshot. Without her they would not continue in this darkening universe. Father walked forwards and whispered in her ear, “Does not the universe last forever?” Anitya smiled. She went to sleep at night with this one in her head.
“Even the universe will die.
Rules and bonds frayed and every element will retire.
No more the stellar fire.
All will change, spread out and reduce.
All Kings and cities, stars and sun turned to cooling soup.”
In the Kitchen Mother was preparing a hot soup for dinner. Anitya sat on the bridge under the blossoms that overhung the stream. With graceful and growing hands, she spread the seeds across the stream for the fish to chase. Outside of the garden, the mountainside was filled with life and beyond it, the world carried on its turning as before. Outside the world, the stars shone and the universe was complete. Outside the Universe, the small, dark, egg shaped mass that contained, it drifted onwards. Its atoms and circuits were shielded from the inevitable decay around. It drifted through the warm brown soup of what remained of the real universe. Lazily it moved further into a large, dense cluster of particles, channeling every ounce of energy it could. Father smiled adjusting and repairing the relays as they moved in and out of alignment. Not yet, he thought.
The Signal.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Not yet.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
20/02/2013 | Categories: Contemplation, Dreams, Fantasy, Magical, Nature, Poetry, Reality, Science, Shorts | Tags: anitya, bhuddism, Dreams, entropy, Fantasy, impermanence, indie writing, Magical, mujo, Nature, Poems, poetry, reality, renewal, Science, Short Stories, writers, writing | 1 Comment
The Stars in Twin Lakes.
Andrea and John didn’t seem to notice, focusing on the first of the bubbles to reach the surface. John reached down, the movement of his arm tracing a glowing arc through the air. Andrea was giggling and running her fingers through his hair. He seemed to look up at her and down at the lake at the same time as he scooped one of the bubbles from the lake. My heart was racing and my head was screaming as I tried to make sense of it all. The bubble rested in johns open hand like a Christmas decoration. A blurry shape moved and glowed inside, like a firefly. All around us yellow glowing shapes rose from the surface and hung in the air. They danced like sparks reminding me of the others sitting back at the cabin where we had left them around the fire. Were they experiencing this too?
As I thought of them, I felt my body rising from the boat, dark imagined wings beat at my back pulling me from the surface, the flight scattering the sparks across the lake. Effortlessly I was drawn backwards and down to the cabin on the shore. Through the windows there was movement blurred inside. The walls of the cabin seemed to rise and fall as if it was breathing. Orchids were growing from the porch, rapidly taking on growth, reaching across and devouring each other. I smiled knowingly. They were something that could only come from the mind of Jessica. As I floated, looking through the window, a rose vine crept from the roof to wrap itself around my wings. The sharpness of the thorns registered distantly in my mind and the wings dissolved into feathers of light floating away, burning into embers. I landed awkwardly on the porch
A large man with a blank face burst through the fly screen that now dripped down the frame like honey. He pushed past me, running across the driveway towards the pine trees on the slopes. He was waving his arms in a frenzy of coloured lights, swirling around and spinning in all directions. As I watched, his body gradually lost its form, turning into pure light and dissipating into the tree line in all directions. I followed its changing colours beneath the canopy. Above in silhouette against the rapidly lightening sky, several trees seemed to break away and fly upwards like crows. Everything was moving, merging, even the ground beneath shifted and rolled up and down. Was this the end of it all, or simply the beginning of something new? I needed to find Jessica while I still had a foothold on stable reality.
I stepped into the doorway of the cabin. The lights were now green and gave an eery feel to the room. Sitting in a chair by the fire was a giant bear made entirely of ants. It was playing with the flames in the fire, teasing at them with its claws. A crowd of people were dancing in the kitchen there was music but it was difficult to make out. Sounds, smells, colours, even the floor were all becoming confused. The cabin was filling with bubbles. They pushed in at the windows like a faulty washing machine, spilling across the floor. I glanced upwards and ducked as a crystal chandelier danced downwards towards the floor. It broke at my feet, exploding in slow motion, shards becoming mist like, swirling in a draft that flowed from stairs.
There hands on hips on the landing was Jessica. She stood with a letter opener in her hand or was it part of her? I couldn’t tell any more my eyes were watering. She whirled away in her red dress that malted rose petals as she walked towards the bedrooms. I made to follow her, stopping only just in time to realise I was still standing in the boat. Frustrated I took stock of what had happened. The stairs floating just in front of me rose and fell as the house continued its heavy breathing. At my feet, Andrea and John were now in a state of passionate arousal, rolling around and kissing in the boat. I watched as John’s shirt appeared to break away, turning into a swarm of spiders that crawled overboard to pool like oil on the surface of the lake.
Watching them merge together, each no longer discernible from the other, arms and legs dissolving into one body, I felt the urgency to see Jessica return. Resting one foot on the side of the boat I lurched and aimed my body for the bottom of the stairs. They welcomed me, curling around like a blanket inviting me to sleep. I hadn’t noticed how sleepy I felt before. Pushing away the folds of the stair carpet I slithered up the slope of the stairwell. Rose petals drifted around, as they met with bubbles, they ignited sending smoke rings into the air. There were lots of bubbles now, they were filling the space around me making it difficult to move and hard to breathe. Finally I made the landing and dragged my tired body upright. Swaying in what seemed to be a drunken state, I giggled at the old age that seemed to have overcome me. I looked down at my hands which had become clawed and useless.
There were letter openers growing in small clumps from the floor and the walls, standing tall like the asparagus we had tenderly cared for in the roof garden last summer. The rose petals led the way, carpeting the floor completely. I could smell expensive wine, summer barbeques and children singing. The door at the end of the corridor was made of sponge and coral. Blurred fish swam amongst the bubbles, nibbling at its surface. I pushed it aside and lunged into the room. She was laying on her back on the bed The red dress nearly dissolved into nothing. The light in the room was blinding. She looked without recognition, turning away with her eyes rolling in her head. Her hair was golden fire, burning into the pillow and dripping from the covers.
There was nothing left. I couldn’t even remember why I was standing in the room. Everything was confusing, the light was so unbearably bright and all I wanted to do was rest. Shielding my eyes, I made a clumsy walk to the bed, laying down beside her. The light above us was so blinding. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of her breathing, of the house breathing. It was a heavy sound, laboured and desperate. There didn’t seem to be enough air for us to breathe and the room was filling up with bubbles. The stars had fallen to the earth and were burning the trees and there was nothing we could do about it. I would sleep and clean it up in the morning. The light was too painful and I needed to breathe.
I needed so desperately to breathe…
…desperately to breathe…
…to breathe…
…breathe…
Since the occurrence of numerous earthquakes on Mammoth Mountain in 1989, scientists have been monitoring large amounts of CO2 gas leaking from the Long Valley Caldera. They noticed first that large numbers of trees had died. The nearby town of Mammoth Lakes has not been affected, but half a mile north of Twin Lakes there are warnings that staying in the vicinity of horseshoe lake for more than half an hour can be fatal. This story is based on an imagined gas leak in Twin Lakes and the struggle of an individual to find the one person he loved before it is too late.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
17/02/2013 | Categories: Dreams, Magical, Reality, Science, Shorts | Tags: Dreams, Magical, reality, Science, Short Stories | 1 Comment
Lady in the Storm
Ben seemed to see the coming of every blast, turning the tiller to meet them, he avoided being washed away and to the side. He wore his gear away from his head, water running off his broken nose and mingling with the blood. His short blonde hair nothing more than a stubble on his otherwise clean shaven features. Ben was silent and expressionless, impossible to read in this gloom. He could not tell from one moment to the next if Ben was sure of himself or about to jump overboard.
Aaron sat beside him at the bow, clinging to the rope that fastened to the prow. His face was a mask of twisted expressions as his aging eyes strained to make out the landscape ahead of them. Aaron was silent and stern but his face revealed more of their plight than Ben. His teeth were gritted as he leaned up, occasionally standing to look over the bow, spitting rainwater and ocean when he returned.
In the distance, the bells of St. Marks rang across the sea, faint and inconstant. No lights in the town could be seen and the headland was an imperceptible line between sky and water. For all he knew they could be about to crash into cliffs, or run aground on the low rocks east of town. He had no head for the sea. Both the other men knew this and he assumed their silence spoke their opinion clearly. He had heard the rumours around the tables, during cigars and brandy, in the asides at market. How could a man live so close and yet so far from the water? Strange that they should choose to help him perhaps. No. He had heard all the past stories that men had often sent out to rescue murderers and thieves. There was no room for judgement on the water, here you were only as far from your peers as the boat allowed you to sit.
A wall of wind drove rain into his eyes, blinding him for a brief moment. At the same time the boat lurched upwards in a sharp swell. As he reached for his eyes, he felt his body leave the boat, stomach slamming into his diaphragm and rotating him like a leaf into the air. Aaron made a grab for his coat tails, pulling him face first into the deck and slamming his cheekbone against the wood. His head span as he rolled onto his back to look up at Aaron. A glance down briefly to make sure he was moving and the old man went back to his watch peering at a point far away from the boat. He couldn’t see if he had seen something or was just concentrating hard.
Suddenly the grim figure above him turned to shout something. He couldn’t hear. It was lost in crashing waves. Ben did not appear to hear him either but as Aaron waved his arm to the port, the boat wheeled in that direction all too quickly listing to the starboard as waves pressed against its sides. He felt sick and his ears were ringing from the impact of the wooden deck but he raised himself up onto his knees to peer out at what Aaron was waving at. Two black mountains loomed out of the sea in front of them. white foam cascading over them to show their shapes. Smaller rocks could be seen dotted here and their but he assumed Ben had seen them and would take them around. What had Aaron seen there? He couldn’t see it. He took the old man’s shoulder and gave him a questioning look. Aaron signaled to the rope which he held tight this time and then holding his arm out for his eyes to follow gestured to the base of the rock to the east of them.
He peered out into the growing gloom, only seeing imagined shapes everywhere. All things were moving, nothing would stay still. His frustration grew and he was about to turn to Aaron once more and ask when he saw it, a frail figure in white standing motionless in chaos of the storm. As he fixed his glare, rubbing water and salt out of his eyes, Aaron turned beside him to shout the manoeuvrings and warnings of the rocks beneath. They rose and fell, moving forwards with agonisingly slow progress to come close enough to speak. The figure on the rocks made no indication of seeing them approach, standing motionless looking out into the ocean beyond. It was a woman, her floating white linen robe billowing around her, revealing the shape of her body in the wind. Her hair was a flame of red, drifting around her face like Wireweed making it impossible to see her eyes.
Aaron dropped the anchor finally, signalling that they could get no closer. If he wanted to speak with her, he would have to shout. He suddenly felt a doubt. What if she would not hear him? There were many tales of those who had tried and failed, found washed along the shore next morning in the aftermath of her powers. Aaron touched his shoulder again without speaking he could see the urgency in his face. They would not have much time here. He gripped the rope and drew himself forwards once more now half leaning over the bow of the ship. Fear paralysed him in place as he saw the full power of this constantly thrashing landscape. He had thought of the words he would call setting out from home two days ago. Bellowing into the wind as hard as he could.
“Let them go!”
She did not respond, instead the wind rose around them dragging more waters over the sides and rocking them like a washing line in a gale. Again he called to her.
“You must release them!”
Aaron was more agitated than ever, checking around them as the boat strained in the swells at the anchor. She would not hear them. They had failed. He felt his heart sink, the loss he would feel and the futility of returning home. Once more with everything he had, he bellowed at her as with all his grief.
“I need them more than life itself! Return them and take me instead!”
At first he didn’t see, burying his head in his arms to wipe the tears that now mingled with the wind and rain and sea. When he looked up, Aaron was staring at the rock. The figure had turned and was now staring back. A calm lull broke around her as her hair fell, laying down behind her pale white shoulders. She was looking directly at them, no expression or hint that she had understood but now they all felt her eyes. Even Ben glanced down and spat an oath to the sea. Looking back, straining to see beyond the two figures in front. Her eyes held no kindness. She considered the three men in front of her clinging to the boat. He felt small, inconceivably so. Tiny in her terrible beauty. As she looked directly into his eyes the wind struck them from above and around and the sea beneath rose without warning. Aaron yelled fumbling with the already heavy anchor but could not release it. As they rose, timbers splintered and rope frayed and snapped. The boat sprung back away from the rocks, the bow flipped out of the water and turned about to land behind them.
He flew through the air this time knowing Aaron’s strong hands would not catch him. His body tumbled and crashed into the water. As he surfaced the boat was already moving away from the rocks, spurred onwards by the onslaught of the waves around them. Ben was straining on the tiller to turn and Aaron was nowhere to be seen. Waves engulfed him once more and as he surfaced, they had doubled the distance between them. The freezing waters made him feel sluggish and numb. He tried to turn his head to see the rocks, they were not far away and he could make it but his body didn’t want to move. Aaron was shouting from somewhere. Something he couldn’t understand. As he finally turned his body towards the rocks, he saw her once more standing perfectly still in the chaos of the storm. The wind carved her elegant figure in the clean white linens she wore. They seemed to him to glow as the salt stung his eyes. She gazed at him, hair flailing in the wind like a terrible midnight sun. She was smiling.
As he slipped beneath the waves, his final thoughts turned to them. Had he done enough? Would this suffice? Eyes closing and thoughts becoming calm and distant as the shore, he wondered at the movement of the rocking sea. How calm beneath the waves and turbulent above. How serene, dark and gentle. His final visions were filled with lights from deep. Creatures; floating beings moved upwards and towards him. He somehow knew that they would be safe now. His work was done.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
09/02/2013 | Categories: Journeys, Nature, Sea, Shorts | Tags: Fantasy, Magical, Nature, Sea, Short Stories | Leave a comment
The Cabinet of Rodin.
This story is based on two dreams. One where I was trying to find the 6th vark and the other while exploring the Cabinet of Rodin. I have worked the two together into a theme that has been revolving in my head the last week. A little Edgar Allen Poe for those who know him. Feedback welcome.
There had always been tenderness in the quality of her touch that I adored and craved. As we passed we would caress an arm or run fingers gently through each other’s hair, steal meaningful glances when no one was looking. We would share our affections in secret, giving the impression that we were experts not swayed by emotion. Only in the few private moments when we were alone could we truly be ourselves. We still shared the same bed, prepared our meals together and discussed our work with the same enthusiasm. Yet something had changed. In that moment of missed hands it became obvious that we were simply acting out of habit and convenience and it marked the start of the events that led us both to the cabinet.
We were lacking something. Helen mentioned it first after we returned to present our arguments to the Institute. The committee could not easily accept our evidence.There was no 6th Vark, only a reproduction of the 5th. It destabilised the value of the entire collection. Helen approached them with the same warm smile she gave to everyone. They could not shake her or persuade her to dispute anything we presented. We had left them with our conclusions and they remained arguing over what should be done. Our findings were conclusive, there was no other answer for them to consider. The 9 Varks were now 8 with an addition spare. It could now be restored correctly.
Sitting in the foyer of the Institute waiting for the car, she turned to me and stated simply, “I felt completely alone. Where were you in there?” I was shocked. I had, as always, taken my seat at the side of her presenting the evidence, photographs, testimonies and samples as my love proceeded in her usual professional manner. She was shaken. Nothing had changed on the outside and yet inside she felt that I was no longer there with her. I promised that I would try to make her feel more relaxed the next time and that we should spend some time together.
Over the next few weeks we retreated to the country, refusing work and choosing instead to try and reconnect with the magic that had once been there. The mood soon deteriorated. Rather than spending time on long walks together, Helen began consulting with other professionals, assisting on other unsolved mysteries. I resisted the temptation to start my own projects until the second day. We began to see less and less of each other, meeting at mealtimes and discussing the various problems that had arisen while our laptops sat open at our sides. Occasionally I would steal a glance in on her as she worked stretched out across the bed. I searched for some feeling of desire, the compulsion to whisk her to the bedroom or steal a kiss. There was nothing. Our romance was at an end.
By the end of the first week, I was working on American time, rising in the evening and sleeping mid morning. A project had started in Panama investigating a tomb of mummified children. As the items were dug up, the team displayed live video feeds and chemical analysis. Setting up in the front room, I had regular meetings with the team who confessed they were not nearly experienced enough to be heading up the site. Helen slept and I worked and in the mornings we would mumble pleasantries to each other discussing the work over breakfast. She was equally absorbed in her work. By Monday I was entertaining the idea of just flying out there to oversee the forensics when I noticed that Helen was gone.
There was a note on the kitchen table. All it said was, “Gone to Paris. ‘Think we’ve found an early Rodin. Dinner’s in the fridge. X” She hadn’t mentioned Rodin at all since we had retreated into our own little worlds. There was only one person who she could be with in Paris and that was Jerome. I looked at the note and considered the implications. We were moving in separate circles. I felt nothing except relief that she had not only considered but acted in a way that I had only thought about. I felt less like the guilty party and relaxed into my work. Perhaps a frivolous fling with Jerome would be all that she needed to come back to me. Something I could live with.
The second week came to an end and there was no word from Helen. The Panama excavation was taking too much of my time. Forensic science was not a strong skill amongst the volunteer team who were working around the clock but the American team from Harvard was arriving in two days and a storm was coming in. I wanted to support as much as I could before the whole dig site was under water so I considered that Helen was equally as busy and thought nothing more of it.
The next Friday, there was a message from Jerome. He hadn’t seen or heard from Helen since he had called her and wondered if everything was ok. I did my best to calm his fears and said I would ring around. She may have decided to see her family; I would check and get back to him. There was something else in his voice I couldn’t fathom. I felt there were other things he needed to say but couldn’t. Had they been together? When I put the phone down, I started to panic, it wasn’t like her to arrange a trip and not turn up. I checked her family and the nursing home where her mother lived, no one had seen Helen in 3 weeks since she had come away with me.
I wrapped up things with Panama and packed for France, Jerome met me at 6am the next morning at Calais. He was young, athletic and tall; his dark hair styled and long like a footballer. He dressed in an Italian style, something I loathed but Helen had always gone for. He looked tired and furtive, older than his years, glancing around us as we left the ferry terminal and emerging into the open air. We drove to Paris and he filled me in on what had been happening.
Jerome had been dealing with a Serbian family who had taken the Lombardi apartments in the Cannaregio quarters, Venice. They had acquired, by means they were not prepared to discuss, a bronze plated cabinet reputed to have been completed by Rodin 13 years prior to the infamous “Gates of Hell” but holding all the same details including some very early renderings of “The Thinker.” Jerome had pictures from various angles but admitted he had not visited the piece himself. My first thoughts on seeing it were of the sheer size of the thing. It certainly looked like a Rodin at a glance but I couldn’t tell from the photos alone. Why it had been shipped to Paris was a mystery again. Jerome assumed the family was selling.
As we drove, I began to imagine all kinds of horrific outcomes. Jerome had probably asked as little as possible about the people they were dealing with. Surely this would also have troubled Helen. I tried to reassure myself that this was just her way of finding some space away from everything although I knew deep down that Helen was not a person who enjoyed her own company. She was more at home in an evening dress at some launch discussing recent finds, promoting our business and generally talking things up. She would have probably wanted to get straight to work on the cabinet’s authentication. I asked Jerome to take me to the cabinet; perhaps something Helen had considered doing.
The crate containing the cabinet had been shipped to a small gallery in the Jewish quarters in Le Marias. The owner was frequently out of town and the area was quiet, mainly private apartments, cafes and very exclusive hotels. We were able to park off the street in a small, private, underground car park that housed a collection of several very expensive cars. The porter came to greet us. Jerome had called ahead explaining we required to see the piece. He led us up to a storage area above the main gallery and left us alone. Helen had been here. Her overnight bag and coat were stacked in the corner although the porter had no record of her visiting the site. Even before I had seen her things I knew that she had been. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe a faint trace of her perfume in the air but this was absurd. The crate had been split open in a frenzied way with pieces strewn across the floor. Aside from the explosion of crate and the cabinet it left exposed in the centre, there was nothing else to see which made the presence of this dark monolithic structure even more overwhelming.
I searched her bag for clues. Her return tickets to London and a booking for the l’Hotel d’Albret. I checked immediately, it had been pre-paid but the room was never used. Whatever had happened to Helen had happened here at the Gallery. The police were now firmly on my mind, an option I could see worried Jerome as much as the disappearance of Helen. Although I felt no regard for his feelings, something held me back; a feeling that someone was watching us. I decided to inspect the cabinet to see if there was anything we may be missing. Even then there was a small part of me that was waiting for some tell-tale sign that everything was all right. My heart was racing as I stepped up to the front of the cabinet. It was taller than me by at least the length of my forearm.
The cabinet was black; incredibly dark even in the light from the large windows of the storeroom. The bronze seemed to absorb all of the light that fell upon it which was strange and would have intrigued me more if not for my feelings of urgency. The doors depicted the descent into hell commonly associated with his later work that now resided in Zurich. Contorted figures were twisted and wrapped into difficult and ugly positions. In the door panels, shapes and patterns swirled downwards leading the observer to experience a certain sense of vertigo as if the ground had been shifted in front of you. I felt drawn towards it; compelled to trace the metalwork with my hands feeling for some kind of catch that would release them. Its surface was very smooth and a lot warmer than I had imagined. I started to search to side pillars for a release catch of some kind; reaching in behind the figures of angels and demons entwined together.
Ironically, I thought to myself that Helen should be there. She was the expert on Rodin. I remember how she had boasted to me when we first met of how she had discovered 3 forgeries in a private collection when she was 22 years old. Rodin remained elusive to me beyond the chemical composition of the bronze used to cast his sculptures or the paint he used on canvas. I could tell you if something was painted in Italy or cast in a foundry in Poland. I could extract any information you wished from the tiniest substance but I couldn’t tell you if he would have used a long brush stroke or if he would have produced a sculpture based on a specific model. The artistic detail was her department. I was just the science and the paperwork.
Jerome had disappeared downstairs to talk on his mobile phone. The conversation was strained and hushed,( most likely the owner of the piece.) I quickened my examination of the cabinet. No guarantees how much time I would have before the whole thing disappeared. I was feeling around the back of the head of a small carved lady prostrate against the pillar that supported the enormous marble mantle of the cabinet when I felt movement under my index finger. The head popped back slightly, something whirred and rattled inside the cabinet. I stepped back startled to see that part of the ebony side paneling of the cabinet had opened to reveal a small shelf. My heart was trembling a little. Had Helen found this? I moved slowly around the cabinet to get a better view and peered inside.
On the shelf there were three items. A small art deco statue of a Siamese cat, a piece of parchment rolled and sealed in a purple ribbon and a bone saw which appeared to have been used very recently. My head began to spin a little and I felt as if I weighed less than a feather. Why would a used bone saw be concealed here? Without thinking I began to feel around the two gigantic cabinet doors to try and find an opening. I was calling her name and wrestling with the doors but they would not move. Jerome and the porter were hurrying back up the stairs; I had to find a way in.
Searching the room I found a fire extinguisher and was about to smash it through the doors when the two men grabbed me from behind. After a struggle Jerome finally took the weapon away and pinned me to the floor. “What’s going on Jerome? There’s blood in that cabinet. Where is she?” I was breathing hard, not just from the scuffle but more out of blind panic. She was in there. I could feel it. The porter was checking the cabinet for any damage and nodded at Jerome when he was happy there was none.
“She is not here and I do not know where she is. Please Richard you need to calm down and listen to me. Our lives may depend on it.” He brought his face close to mine with his last words, eyes betraying his urgency. “We need to leave this place right now!”
“I’m calling the police Jerome. Whatever you have involved us in, you can explain it to them.” I strained against his hold meeting his gaze with my own desperation and anger. The more time passed the more I became convinced that Helen must be inside the cabinet.
Jerome sagged a little, releasing his grip slightly. He dropped his gaze and sighed a deep and long sigh. “It won’t do you any good Richard. Believe me I’ve tried already. Someone very important wants this cabinet cared for and unharmed. Someone very, VERY important.” He let go of me, stepping up and back, kicking at the crate wood that lay around us. “We need to leave this place and never come back. You can call them when we have left but you will never see this again. I don’t know where Helen is. I know she came here but she left again and yes, it is very likely that the new owner had something to do with her disappearance. We simply cannot do anything at this point Richard.”
He offered me his hand, “We must leave now before they get here Richard or there will be no hope for us. You have already seen too much.” I looked at Jerome’s hand and I considered everything that had happened. I went through Jerome’s words. I recalled the items in the cabinet, Helen’s bag, the porter. I looked at the cabinet and thought of Helen, her absence from everything around me. I tried to stir memories of times we had spent together. The cases we had worked on, moments we had touched, times we had kissed and shared embraces. I stared at the cabinet and imagined Helen imprisoned inside. I went from the hand to the cabinet and back all the time trying to consolidate my emotions and stir myself into action and as I did I remembered our hands; Helens hand; my hand; missing in the air, stirring the dust between us momentarily and retreating to nothing. A circle had been completed. It was enough.
I took his hand and raised myself from the floor. As I did I launched myself towards him, pushing him back and off his feet and towards the cabinet. I used every ounce of strength I had to slam his body into the cabinet. As we both rebounded from its bronze doors I watched as it rocked backwards in slow motion tilting away from us. The porter tried desperately to move into position to catch the enormous black metal slab that was falling towards the floor I noticed the gun holstered under his left arm. It was too late to catch it as he discovered once he had stepped into its path. The cabinet came crashing to the floor.
The sound was colossal, like prison gates in far away corridors slammed shut forever in my head. I recall I felt the ground shake but didn’t know if I had imagined it. Jerome lay on the floor next to me gasping for air, I couldn’t see the porter. I ran to the extinguisher and smashed at the doors of the cabinet which now looked more like sarcophagus. Metal rang on metal three times before I realized it would not even make a dent in it. I threw it down at him and cursed him for involving us both. Placing my hands on the surface of the doors, kneeling on its front I gazed down into the carving of the abyss and accepted that I would never see her again.
I heard wheels turning inside, mechanical motion, clockwork ticking. The cabinet was moving beneath me; gently vibrating. Looking down at Jerome, I could see pain and terror. He was backing away from me in disbelief of what was happening. My hands and knees were sinking slowly into the now fluid doors of the cabinet. The warmth beneath increased, the air became harsh and dry and the light from the windows dimmed. I stared down into the void that was opening below me and saw fires and flames within the scene. Figures on the pillars began to move, far away voices cried out incoherent and impossible to tell if they were in pain or pleasure. So this would be my fate? I saw Helen transfixed in the same way I was now being pulled towards the heat, terrified and tantalized by everything she saw.
As I resigned myself to the abyss, I felt desperate hands at my shoulders. It was Jerome. He pulled me out of the cabinet. I was already knee deep. As he pulled I felt a searing pain arcing through my legs. Fire leapt about my lower body and Jerome screamed pulling me away. We lay for a moment listening to the noise of creatures writhing inside the depths before I caught a glimpse of my legs and passed out. I have vague memories of the moments afterwards as felt from somewhere distant. There were footsteps falling hard on metal stairs; voices calling; flames and smoke rising around me; the heat on my face. I was dragged, carried, pushed and pulled around. Somehow he managed to get me to the car and to the hospital.
I have been here for two weeks now. The police have been to see me several dozen times each time asking the same questions each time receiving these same answers. The cabinet has vanished as has Jerome but if these two disappearances are connected, I cannot say. I have moments where I weep but I do not know if it is for the use of my legs or Helen or perhaps both. The drugs they are giving me make emotions a stranger. They say the flesh will never grow back fully and each morning before I have been fully medicated the pain is unbearable. The diary is the only recourse I have but it still gives no further insight into my feelings for Helen.
Every morning when the pain has subsided and I think clearly once more, I try to remember her and every morning it is the same image, her hand reaching out of the abyss and our fingers stirring the flames and the smoke between us.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
05/05/2011 | Categories: Detective, Dreams, History, love, Relationships, Shorts | Tags: Death, edgar allen poe, History, indie writing, Magical, Relationships, Short Stories, writers, writing | 2 Comments
The Bat Diaries.
Photo credit: southernfried from morguefile.com
New Entries from the Bat Diaries now accessible. Click below to read individual entries. Leave a comment if you wish.
Lee.
Distant Thunder in the Twilight
Full Moon and Venus over Mackrell Sky
Strange Sunset followed by Waning Moon
Bats in the Headlights and Shooting Star
After the Passing of the North East Wind
Fiery Trails in the West and Close Bat Encounters
04/03/2011 | Categories: Animals, Contemplation, Nature | Tags: Animals, Diary, Magical, Nature | Leave a comment
The Hat Maker’s Daughter
As the star glowed red and warm it looked down upon the girl their eyes met. It saw wonder and youth, questions and curiosities, a whole lifetime of adventures to be taken. With it’s final breathe it shrank down and died, scattering it’s dust across the universe, covering the girls lips and her cheeks with beauty, filling her heart with life and her eyes with light, filling her lungs with music and her mind with thoughts.
The next day she sat with her father in his workshop and watched him make his hats. He made hats for ladies, hats for men, caps for children. She sat down beside him, and taking up needles and wool she started to knit. With nothing but wool she played and weaved until she had finished a beautiful hat simple and elegant, noble and humble all at the same same. She stood and presented the hat to her father.
The hat maker admired his daughter’s work. Never before had she entered his workshop. All she found interesting were the games that other children played in the streets outside. He turned the hat in his hands wondering at where she could have learned to make something so skillfully. Carefully he raised the hat to his head and found himself marvelling at the comfort of the lining. Indeed if he had know better he would have said that the hat had simply vanished as he placed it upon his head, so comfortable was the fit.
As he stood looking down into the eyes of his daughter, his thoughts raced. He saw a whole shop filled with the finest hats all lined with this new method that his daughter had perfected in the space of an afternoon. He saw visions of machines, inventions new chemical processes all improving, refining and enhancing the experience the hat wearer would recieve. His mind was racing. He couldn’t stop it. His hands began to shake and slowly he was able to raise them to his head and with a gasp remove the wonderful hat.
Excitedly, nervously he started to babble. Wide eyed he took his daughter’s shoulders, drew her towards him and hugged her. Tomorrow they would order all the things they needed. They were going into business. From that day on, they would be famous! They ate an evening meal together, and sat down around the fire to tell stories. The hat maker told the story of her mother and the little girl told the story of her dream.
“Last night, I dreamt I was drifting through the universe. It was peaceful and quiet. There were many stars and they were singing. They were sad because an old wise star had died but they were singing how the old start would make new stars.” The Hat maker reached out to stroke his daughter’s hair to find that she was very warm.
They went to bed and in the morning he woke to find her weak and tired with a fever. He tried everything he could think of to bring her temperature down but by lunch time he had called the doctor. The doctor, a family friend was concerned. There was nothing he could do and after several hours of powders and remedies, he finally gave up and told the hat maker to keep her cool and give her lots of fluids. The look in his eyes told the hat maker that he should fear the worst. There was nothing more that could be done.
When the evening finally came, The girl was close to death. Her skin was pale but with every passing minute, her eyes burned brighter and brighter. As her father sat by her bed, she reached up to touch his cheek and smiled. Although her touch burned as the poker from the fire he did not brush it aside instead smiling back into her eyes; hoping that perhaps whatever illness possessed her was finally lessening it’s grip. She pointed to the window and her father, thinking it would be cooler there lifted her in his arms and carried her to the open ledge. Now she was as light as a feather and steam was rising from her nightgown in the cool air.
Reaching up the girl kissed her father on the other cheek which burnt hotter than charcoal, his tears cooled the spot and he held his daughter tightly but she whispered, “Please. Father you must let go.” As he started to release his grip, he was shocked to find that his daughter no longer seemed to weigh anything in his arms. Shocked he stepped back to see her floating in front of him now her eyes burned with the light of the midday sun.
“Father do not cry, for this is not my end but my beginning.” With these words she rose through the open window becoming brighter and brighter. She rose into the sky shining brighter and brighter until finally she stopped in place, a tiny point amongst the other bright needle tips.
The hat maker could not sleep. He sat at the open window though the dark night, staring into space, searching for the star that was his daughter. The next morning, when the doctor came to visit, he could not explain what had happened to his daughter. He could only look up at the window and touch the marks upon his cheeks. As the doctor treated his marks, he wondered how his friend had disposed of his daughter’s body. He wondered if there was a risk that the disease she had suffered would appear again in others. While he worked, he looked down and saw by the fire the amazing and wonderful hat that the girl had made the day before…
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
See more Short Stories by Supernova1987 at:
04/02/2011 | Categories: Children's, Fantasy, Magical, Shorts | Tags: Children's, Magical, Nature, Short Stories | Leave a comment